


Midnight Special

by pepperfield



Category: Luke Cage (TV)
Genre: Breakfast, Coffee, Developing Relationship, F/F, Getting to Know Each Other, Minor Injuries, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 22:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9292046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperfield/pseuds/pepperfield
Summary: In the aftermath, Claire waits for Luke to come home, and for Misty to let her in.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is very gently pre-relationship, and even more gently pre-OT3. Please let me know if you have questions/concerns! Thank you for reading!

At first, Claire doesn't recognize her. Not like this, through the streaming curtain of smoke, slipped into a glittering dress that draws attention away from her face, just like she intended. But Claire doesn't easily forget those piercing eyes, nor the puckered scar marking her forearm. The memory of her blood on Claire’s hands, of erratic gunfire and shattering glass, and the adrenaline and rage in Claire’s veins as she wrestled with Shades on the barren basement floor - it all comes rushing back when she notices that scar.

Claire hesitates at the street corner, watching Misty under the golden cast of the streetlamp. She isn't sure if she should approach. Misty is...an ally, and someone who could be a friend, if their circumstances were a little different, but she's also fiercely driven and independent, and the last few times they crossed paths, both of them walked away a little worse for it. Claire doesn't know if she can offer her support, when she isn't even sure if Misty needs it. And what could she say right now that would be of any help? She's out in the cold with her thin coat drawn tight and her plastic bag of groceries straining at the handles. Her bruises are still flowering in watercolor blots over her skin, and some days, it feels like no amount of time will put the distance she needs between herself and her past. Every day she wakes up worrying about Luke, wondering if Matt will be able to help. Every day, she tries to take a step forward, even when she can’t help but look over her shoulder at every shadow.

But moving forward doesn’t mean giving up the fight. So she takes a step, and another, walking still parallel to Misty, long enough that the detective notices her deliberate movements through the haze of a chilly Harlem night. They make eye contact, bridging the chasm of space between them, and Claire tilts her head toward Harlem’s Paradise: a tacit question. Misty, ever the cop even when dressed to the nines in spangled midnight blue, analyzes her for several seconds, before sending back the tiniest of tired smiles and a shake of her head. It causes her curls to bounce.

Someone exits the club, cutting behind Misty, and Claire nods back, not wanting to keep her any longer. She hurries back home, stopping only once to admire Misty’s statuesque figure standing alone in the distance. There’s something captivating about the sight - beautiful despite the loneliness of it all, and the image haunts Claire all the way home.

\--

The next time they meet Misty is sporting a nasty gash on her thigh, her tight red dress in tatters at the hem and splotchy with still damp bloodstains. She’s leaning against the wall across from Claire’s apartment door, her stance casual even though she’s gritting her teeth from pain.

“Inside, now,” Claire commands, stalking down the stretch of the hallway, not bothering to ask why Misty’s come to her instead of the hospital as she unlocks the door. Her mother is still at the diner, which leaves them alone in the apartment together. By the time Claire’s gathered her supplies, Misty has settled herself on the linoleum floor of the kitchen. She’s ripped two long strips from the bottom of the shredded skirt, freeing her leg up to be examined. Claire gets to work without fanfare, sterilizing the cut and wiping away the debris after a close examination.

She works in silence, waiting for Misty to speak first, to offer an explanation, but the other woman seems distracted, eyes glazed over. It's almost alarming, until Claire realizes it's not from pain, but from thought. Misty must be mentally reviewing something from earlier this night, so Claire bandages her up quietly, trying not to distract. It isn't until she's drying her clean hands on a towel and she notices Misty looking at the photos on the wall that she ventures to speak up.

“If I asked, would you tell me?” Claire says as she pours a cool glass of water, pretending she isn't watching Misty from the corner of her eye.

“Not much to tell. I got careless,” Misty admits. She’s sitting on the couch, pretending to rest, but her mind is everywhere else but here. Claire brings her the glass, watching as Misty comes back to her in the present. She continues to watch as Misty takes a long drink, the line of her throat elegant and enticing, and the cut of her dress leads Claire’s eyes down to her collarbones and her cleavage. Part of Claire notices this with detached interest, filing it away as part of Misty’s undercover methods of keeping attention where she wants it. Another part wonders if this is what Luke saw when they met across a dimly lit bar those many months ago, which only opens up more questions. What had they spoken about? When had they known they would be going home together? Do either of them ever still think about that night?

The only thing she doesn’t have to ask is what attracted them to one another. That one, she thinks she can figure out on her own.

“Careless? In your line of work, that could be a death sentence for somebody,” she chides, and Misty snorts.

“Yeah, I know. I’ve been...off, recently,” Misty responds. Since Cottonmouth, since Mariah and Diamondback and Harlem’s Paradise, she doesn’t have to say; Claire knows well enough. “I got lucky this time. One of Mariah’s goons almost caught me snooping around, so I took off through the alleys - but I always forget how much harder it is to run like this,” she says, lifting her ankles so Claire can see her now scuffed up red heels.

Claire shakes her head. “Good thing you didn’t sprain an ankle too. Maybe you should invest in a getaway driver for next time.” She knows it’s useless to tell Misty to rethink her plan. Hell, it’s not like Claire’s one to give up on a mission either, so the best she can hope for is a little more caution.

“You offering?” Misty’s eyes sparkle a little when she’s joking around, and Claire has to crack a grin. Even after everything they’ve been through, Misty’s spirit is indomitable, which is something she can’t help but admire.

“That depends. What do I get out of it?”

“Hm. I’ll have to think of something. Let me sleep on it.” Misty hefts herself to her feet, standing a bit taller than Claire with those damned heels. “Thanks for everything, Claire. I’ll buy you a round next time you stop by the club.”

Claire waves her off with a casual hand as she walks her to the door, Misty hobbling just slightly. “Like I’m setting foot in there anytime soon. Don’t get careless again, got it?”

“Sure thing, doc. Stay safe and give Luke my regards.” With that, she’s out the door like a gust of wind, lost again to the night.

\--

“I’m starting to see a pattern with you hero types,” Claire mutters, dabbing away the blood on her patient’s cheek almost impatiently. It’s a bright and dreary Monday, Claire’s just come home from a shift at the local clinic she’s started work at, and Misty has managed to take a hit across the face from some asshole before nine a.m. Misty hadn’t even been looking for her help, but Claire had spotted her from the window of her mom’s cafe, and roped her into the restaurant before she could refuse.

Misty’s laugh says that she doesn’t mind if Claire’s hands are more brisk than they should be. The sound is warm and musical, and Claire’s fingers almost slip as she’s applying salve to the cut, but she’s too professional for that, even if Misty’s voice stirs a restlessness in the pit of her chest.

“Who's been calling me a hero? I hope you set ‘em straight.”

“Even if you didn’t carry a badge, I get the feeling I'd still spot you out there, trying to keep the streets safe,” Claire says. “I know you’re a cop through and through, but. It might fit you better.”

“What, being a vigilante?” Misty scoffs, and Claire rolls her eyes at the disdain in her voice. They both know Misty is working through the constraints of a broken system.

“Sometimes there are different ways of doing the right thing.”

Misty looks faraway for a moment, before she returns her gaze to Claire, who has finished cleaning up the swelling scratch marring her face. “How’s Luke?” she asks quietly, and Claire shrugs as she throws away the dirtied paper towels, trying not to show how helpless she feels about the whole situation.

“He’s hanging in there. My friend’s been working overtime on his case, and I’m hopeful about hearing back soon.” Matt’s been keeping in touch; he told her yesterday that he was heading down to Georgia to see Luke in person. 

“Good. That’s good.” Misty nods slowly. The scratch bisecting her cheek is already starting to yellow and Claire feels abruptly tired for her. Misty had been breaking up a scuffle between a belligerent drunk and a knockoff handbag vendor, and this was the thanks she got for it. 

“Hey, have you eaten yet?” Claire asks, pushing a menu across the table, trying to break through the veil of melancholy settling upon them. “Order whatever you want; I’ll spot you.”

“I should be the one buying _you_ breakfast,” Misty objects, but she picks up the menu, beginning to peruse the specials. She lowers the menu enough to peer over at Claire, quirking a smile as she says, “I could go for something nice and greasy, but I did already have two donuts…”

“Are you a cartoon character?” Claire laughs. “A cop who eats donuts? C’mon, now.”

“You’ve got no room to be judging me. I saw you inhale that grungy pudding cup at the clinic. You weren’t even hungry!”

“Okay, not my best moment, but after 30 hours without sleep, even the soggy eggs they dish out over there start to look pretty good.”

Misty shakes her head, amused, and flags down a waiter to place her order. While they wait, Misty tells her about the time she whooped the neighborhood boys at basketball while wearing flip-flops. There’s something in the way she narrates a story that keeps Claire hooked. She doesn’t have to use florid language to get her point across; with just a few sentences she sets the scene. The dead heat of summer, Misty in pigtails and awkwardly tall after a growth spurt, the rush of triumph when her team crushes their opponents even though she’s wound up with a skinned knee and two broken sandal straps.

It’s Claire’s turn for a story when Misty’s breakfast arrives. She picks carefully through her memories, skipping over the last couple of years. Too much baggage. She chooses a horror story from her first year on the job: a disgusting tale that’s now become hilarious in retrospect. 

Most of her attention is on Misty, watching the way she spreads butter in choppy strokes over her toast. Claire does amend her story to leave out the more grisly details. She doesn’t want to cause Misty to gag in the middle of a meal, but even the cleaned up version inspires some great queasy faces from her companion.

Claire takes the banana slices that Misty doesn’t want from her toast, drenching them with syrup and indulging in the way Misty looks both jealously intrigued and disturbed by her questionable dietary choices. When Misty’s cell rings, they’re in the middle of comparing who’s had the worse experience with the MTA.

“Sorry, I gotta take this. Detective Knight,” she answers, putting up an apologetic hand.

Claire cuts off half a link of sausage with her fork, and pops it in her mouth. Misty watches this act of blatant thievery with amusement, but her expression rapidly grows grave. She asks a few curt questions, then nods before hanging up.

“There’s a body- I’ve got to go,” Misty says, stepping out of the booth and looking regretful. Claire nods, putting a hand on her arm without thinking. But Misty doesn’t shake her off, so Claire squeezes gently and stands as well.

“Don’t let me hold you up. But you have to tell me what you saw out in Brooklyn next time we meet.” It’s an open invitation to see if Misty wants their chance meetings to become something more concrete, more tangible. Claire thinks they might actually be headed toward a friendship, despite old wounds.

“I’d say you wouldn’t believe me, but you’ve seen plenty enough already,” Misty laughs. She pulls out her wallet to throw a few bills down on the table, but Claire stops her sternly.

“I told you I was covering you, didn’t I?” She folds the money back into Misty’s hand, who reluctantly pockets it and pushes her plate toward Claire’s seat.

“Then it’s only fair for you to finish it off for me. There’s nowhere to store my carry-out at the precinct anyway. Just don’t put syrup on your eggs, you animal,” Misty says, wrinkling her nose. 

Claire rolls her eyes again, fondly this time, and shoos her to the door. “Keep that cut clean and stay safe.”

“Yes, ma’am. Next time’s on me.”

This time, when Misty walks away, she doesn’t seem so distant.

\--

It’s the hour of night when the city is closest to sleeping, though Claire doesn’t see herself headed to bed any time soon.

The fire is out now, not even embers remaining in the gray rubble that used to be the convenience store. Most of the crowd has dispersed, but emergency services remains, picking through the scene. Claire leaves Mrs. Thomas with the EMTs and goes to give her statement to the police. There isn’t much for her to say. She’d arrived after the blaze was already going strong at fire sirens were sounding in the distance. 

As she answers the officer’s questions, she watches the forlorn expressions of her neighbors as they lament yet another stroke of misfortune and violence in this already tumultuous year. The draft creeps in under her skin, and she misses Luke with a sudden fierceness. Misses his solid weight and his comforting scent. The calm cadence of his speech and assurance in his stance. But whatever’s happening here is leagues away from what Luke must be going through, so she isn’t going to bend, and she isn’t going to break. She’s going to protect herself and do her best for the community while she waits to welcome him home.

After she’s been cleared to go, she waits across the street, hugging her arms close to her side and coughing up stray ashes that have wound up in her lungs. Misty exits the store with another detective, stepping carefully over the shattered glass and metal littering the sidewalk. They exchange a few more words before Misty’s partner departs for his own car. Two EMTs exit as well, a sheet draped over the body on their stretcher. They stop to speak briefly with Misty before loading up the ambulance and heading out.

Claire hurries over when the street is clear. “Are you taking the case?” she asks Misty quietly after the other ambulance pulls away.

“I don’t know yet; we have to wait to hear back from the fire marshal. No immediate evidence of harm to the victim besides, well, the fucking fire.” Misty groans, leaning against the side of her car and rubs at the bridge of her nose. “ _They_ have something to do with it, I’m sure.” She doesn’t need to explain to Claire who she means.

“Don’t worry. You’re gonna get them. They’re going to slip up, and you’ll be ready for it.” Claire rests her hand lightly on Misty’s shoulder, but Misty still looks exhausted, the circles under her eyes dark and sunken.

“I know. I _know_ , but some days...it just never seems to end, you know? We keep fighting, but they keep winning, and it feels like we’re barely staying afloat.”

For a few seconds, Claire can see Misty’s iron resolve weaken, her fatigue laying everything else about her bare. Under her relentless drive is someone who isn’t sure anymore who she can trust, betrayed in too short a time by too many people. But Claire is here now.

“Hey,” she says softly, bumping Misty with her hip, placing a careful hand on the other woman’s back. “You don’t have to shoulder it all on your own. You’re not fighting alone, okay? I know there’s gotta be some other good, solid people on your team you can count on. And don’t forget, you’ve got me, and you’ve got Luke. We’re not gonna lose to the likes of _Mariah Dillard_ ,” she scoffs, “and her attack dog.”

Misty takes a sharp breath, straightening her back. “No. No, we’re not,” she says, and when her dark eyes catch Claire’s, she looks more assured, even though her pretty face is still lined with tiredness.

“Right,” Claire says decisively, patting Misty on the back. It’s been a long day, and it’ll be a longer night still, but they don’t have to spend it in gloom and misery. “Let's grab a cup of coffee. I know a place that runs a midnight special.” 

Misty softens a touch under Claire’s attention, and her voice lilts with an affected incredulity, but her crinkling eyes give her away. “First of all, it’s hardly midnight anymore. And second, are you really craving coffee at four in the morning?”

“Don't tell me you’ve never needed a late night pick me up, detective. Besides, you owe me for breakfast, remember?” Claire swivels to walk a few feet backwards, away from Misty, awaiting her response. She spares one last troubled glance at the remains of the store before following Claire with crisp steps.

“Didn’t expect you to cash it in at this ungodly hour, but fair enough. Lead the way.” She jams her car keys back into her coat pocket and rolls her eyes when Claire offers her arm, but takes it anyway, linking it with her own. They walk quietly through the streets - their streets - and for the first time in many weeks, Claire doesn’t feel so cold.

They wind up in front of a tiny, cramped cafe with the best late night coffee Claire’s found so far. The lights are dingy, the linoleum of the floors are scratched and the counter run-down, but none of that matters. They squeeze into the narrow seats of a booth against the wall, under an eclectic collection of unrelated sports memorabilia and music posters pinned to the wallpaper.

Misty watches in concern as Claire stirs an endless stream of sugar into her cup before tugging her saucer away mid-pour. “Slow down, there,” she says as Claire smirks.

“You don’t like it sweet?” Claire wiggles the sugar dispenser in front of Misty, who blocks it with her hand, laughing.

“There’s a line between sweet and depraved, and you just crossed it.”

Claire makes a dismissive noise and swallows down a swig of her over-sweetened coffee. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re no fun, Misty?”

“Oh, I’m plenty of fun. If you’re lucky enough, you might get to find out for yourself,” Misty says archly, and Claire flicks a packet of splenda at her. “So, coffee, huh? Thought you were waiting for Luke to come back,” Misty teases. She’s clearly joking, but Claire looks up at her under the stuttering fluorescent lights, reflecting on how exhausted and beautiful and lonely Misty is - and wonders, _what if?_

“Doesn’t mean I can’t have coffee with you too. Anyway, haven’t you ever heard of coffee for three?” Claire asks frankly, keeping her eyes fixed on Misty, her mouth curved into the start of a smile, but not so much that her question could be construed as a joke.

Misty, to her credit, only looks surprised for one flickering moment, before she leans back in her seat, regarding Claire with curious eyes. “I don't think that's how the saying goes,” she starts, glancing away when Claire continues to wait patiently for her to gather her thoughts. A short, disbelieving laugh slips out as she ducks her head. “Look, Claire, I’m flattered, and honestly, I can’t say I’m not interested, but you and Luke…” She stops, unsure of how to continue, twirling her hand in lieu of words.

“Me and Luke,” Claire confirms, but she reaches across the table, resting her hand next to Misty’s cup. “But you two had something, didn’t you?”

“And it didn’t exactly end well.”

“Maybe not, but you both had some serious shit going on around you at the time. Luke liked- no, he likes you a lot. And for good reason. I know there’s some mixed feelings between you two, but hell, I like you too. I’m gonna be here for him when he gets back, but right now, I’m here with you. And, if you two want, I think we could work it out, the three of us.”

Misty lifts her spoon to clink it against the brim of her cup while she thinks. For a second, Claire thinks she’s going to slip back into her special Misty Vision as she dissects the situation, but instead, she looks back up to meet Claire’s eyes.

“I’m not an easy person, you know that, right? There’s no guarantee anything would work between us, let alone with Luke thrown in there as well.” It’s a fair warning, but Misty doesn’t look apprehensive, which is a good sign.

Claire shrugs. “I know. And that’s okay. We’ll see where this leads. After all, it’s just coffee.” She offers a smile, and after another beat, Misty rests her own hand gently atop Claire’s.

“Well, _I’m_ drinking coffee. You’re drinking syrup,” she says, and it breaks the bubble of uncertainty around her, bringing a lightness to her figure when Claire laughs and takes another defiant sip.

“Then meet me again on Friday, and I’ll bring it down to one spoonful per cup.”

“I’d have to see that to believe it.” Misty drums her fingers lightly over Claire’s wrist, before deciding. “Alright, Friday. God, I can’t believe you’ve got me committed to a second date before we’ve already finished the first one,” she huffs in amusement.

“I’m a persuasive woman,” Claire tells her. “Now, about that Brooklyn thing…”

As Misty jumps back into her story, Claire watches her, trying to memorize the little details about her that stand out clearly now. Finally, Misty feels within reach.

Outside, the night is still cold and dark, and Luke is still down in Georgia, but here, surrounded by Misty’s warmth, Claire knows that things are going to work out, sooner or later. They just have to keep moving forward, one step at a time.


End file.
